


Notes on an Exile

by delgaserasca



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgaserasca/pseuds/delgaserasca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Before he leaves, Colin debates over whether or not to write a note."</p><p>For three months in 1998, Colin is sent to work at the Manchester office.  Malcolm sends him tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Notes on an Exile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vigilantejam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vigilantejam/gifts).



> With copious thanks to my beta ~~whose name I shall herewith append once reveal has taken place~~ , **asemic** , who came through for me in my hour of need.

Before he leaves, Colin debates over whether or not to write a note. On the one hand, Malcolm knows he’s going, why, and for how long. On the other hand, Malcolm’s been avoiding him since Tuesday. To note, or not to note, that is the question.

In the end he goes with a post-it, tacked hastily on the desk in front of Malcolm’s many computer screens, stacked vertically and horizontally for 180-degree vision. A post-it is a light touch, Colin thinks as he scrambles in the drawer for a biro. It indicates that thought and effort were incurred, but not too much of either to suggest an apology. This is _not_ an apology. Clearly. But he didn’t feel right just disappearing for three months without saying goodbye.

It takes four drafts, but in the end he's pleased enough with the outcome.

 _Didn't catch you this afternoon. Speak when I get to Manc. -- C_

As an afterthought he adds a smiley face.

He comes back five minutes later, and re-writes the note, this time minus the face. Yeah. Much better. He pockets the pen and leaves for the night, conscious that it will be some time before he’s back on the grid.

 

 

The Manchester office is poorly lit and poorly ventilated, exactly the sort of conditions Malcolm would hate. There is a perpetual draught, though Colin has yet to locate the source. The Section Chief - Arthur Merriweather - is a hawk-eyed man with a long face and Spock-like eyebrows - a modern-day Bela Lugosi whom Colin instantly begins to refer to as The Count. He makes a note to hone his description when he emails Malcolm.

Clearly it is going to be that sort of day. He's spent the last two nights in two different rooms at the nearest Holiday Inn, and got lost on the way to the office, despite the instructions he’d written down. To make matters worse, The Count obviously had no notion that Colin’s three-month transfer began that morning, or had even been scheduled. A middle-aged woman with bright red hair offers him coffee as others in the tech department scramble to find him a desk. Colin finds himself in the corner on the room, clutching his briefcase in one hand and polystyrene cup in the other, wondering what fresh hell is this?

It's eleven a.m. by the time he gets himself situated and the office clears out for the mid-morning briefing. Merriweather indicates that Colin is not welcome with a wry raising of one eyebrow, his intentions communicated clearly enough to give Harry’s taciturn face a run for its money. Booting up the PC, Colin puts the now-lukewarm tea aside and gets himself logged into the system. Half an hour later he's got a pretty good idea of the lay of the land - not too different from Thames House, but clunkier, with too many surplus file directories, and a whole section of the network allocated to making a mess out of the comms. He can see now why Harry’s booted him up north, but it still grates at his nerves somewhat. The botch up on the Clinton job had not been his fault, nor had it been Malcolm's, but the two of them had been landed in the soup regardless, and now here Colin is, two-hundred odd miles away from home, his team, and - apparently - a decent cup of tea.

He opens his email browser; watches the cursor blink accusingly on the screen.

 

 

from:             c.wells@thameshouse.gov.uk  
sent:              16th March 1998 11.32 GMT  
to:                  m.wynnjones@thameshouse.gov.uk  


 _Hi Malcolm,_

 _Got into work okay this morning,_ he types, neglecting to mention his detour through the city, _though someone somewhere has botched the transfer protocols because no-one here was expecting me. Have managed to acquire a workpost and a functioning PC but not expecting any miracles. Saw a system that still runs entirely on DOS. Moving north is a bit like going through time, except without the benefit of a blue phone box and/or Tom Baker._

(He stops a moment to consider whether or not to amend that to Jon Pertwee, but reconsiders; the Fourth Doctor is a veritable classic, of course.)

 _Am currently under the guard of Count Dracula himself, and the team seems friendly enough, if not a bit dazed at my sudden and brilliant appearance. I'm not sure they always understand what I'm saying._

 _Still looking for digs. Will send my address when I have one. Say hi to everyone for me. Please remind Tom that the satellite tech on the track system I passed over still isn't a hundred percent, so if he wants to use it, he's not to rely on it completely._

 _Hope your mum's well. Sorry about absence at short notice. Feel free to water the cactus when you remember,_

 _Col_

He reads the email over a couple times before adding, _I hope you're not still annoyed with me about the thing_ , and hits send before he can reconsider. Probably an ill-timed move, but it's been three days since he last spoke to his friend, and he feels a bit like Gershom, stranger in a strange land, or Arthur Dent, sans protective towel.

Time to make a decent cuppa, he decides, and kicks the chair back from the desk. Hopefully Malcolm will be in a better mood soon.

 

 

Two days later, first class delivery, he gets post delivered to the office. "We don't normally accept personal mail at the office," says Ethel, the red-headed tea-murdering office matriarch who happens to be a dab hand at steganography, "but seeing as it's your first infraction, I'll let it be just this once." She hands over the postcard with a flourish, and Colin takes it from her with a sheepish nod.

Typically, it's from Malcolm, who despite his talents prefers putting pen to paper, or finger to straight key. His long, sprawling hand loops gracefully over the card, and Colin has never been more grateful for a note his whole life.  


 _18th March 1998_

 _Colin,  
Not annoyed. Will send provisions as soon as.  
Malcolm_

The card itself is nothing special, just a picture of a red pillar box, but Colin pins it to his noticeboard all the same, though not before trying to peel away the front to see if there is anything else to be had from it. The data analysts in Research are startled to see him smiling, but offer him a couple of digestives before they head in for their briefing.

A week later, Colin receives a box marked CONFIDENTIAL from Thames House. He waits until the team goes in for their briefing, then tears through the gaffer tape and bubblewrap to unearth a kettle, two boxes of PG Tips, and three back issues of the New Scientist. Taped to the tea is a sheet ripped from the weekly threat report issued in late January - _To combat boredom and alleviate homicidal tendencies. Don't brew it all at once -- Malcolm_. Colin hides the box in his desk drawer, and locks it for safe measure.

 

 

One week rolls into the next, and Colin still isn't allowed in on the security briefings. He doesn't mind not going so much as not being trusted, but Merriweather is apparently still trying to determine whether Colin is a mole Harry has sent to report back on goings-on. This is sort-of true, so Colin tries not to feel too maligned, but he spends his days trying to re-structure the Manchester offices' haphazard filing system - _alphabetical by way of date_ , he writes to Malcolm, _why, oh why would anybody do that?_ \- and running ciphers for Head Office down in London. Things in Manchester seem to run more slowly than in the city, though that's to be expected. More often than not Thames House picks up the slack for Six, but in Manchester everyone's zeroed in on domestic politics. The continued trouble in Algiers hits the headlines before Colin hears about it, and even then there's little for his new teammates to do. London's long-term caseload gets shifted north for a few days, but eventually that goes home, too. Malcolm breaks radio silence with another postcard: _All quiet on the home front_. The picture, this time, shows a boy dressed in a cardboard box painted to look like a robot. Colin is beginning to amass a collection.

The field operatives here are nothing like Tom and Zoe, though at her most irritable Ethel reminds Colin a little of Tessa. There are two section heads he normally runs tech for - Penny is a one-time intel analyst who came over from Six a few years back, and ended up running an op her third week on the job. She's patient, but shrewd, and Colin tries not to get on her bad side. Michael, comparatively, is almost over-relaxed about his job. Brought in from the military, he spent a lot of time in the Middle East. Broad-shouldered, with wide palms, he had a habit of gesticulating wildly; beverages were removed from reach whenever Michael sauntered into the room.

 _He has the manner of a bull in a china shop_ , Colin writes to Malcolm, _and none of Tom's quietude_. He pauses to consider his words, then adds, _Zoe would love him. He's built like a rack-mounted server, but you have to input all your data twice, or it won't compute_. Still, credit where credit's due: when UNSCOM's report to the UN sets a fire beneath the Iraq disarmament process - _again_ \- it's Michael who gets sent out to try and handle the fallout. Five and Six have people in the desert, but the peace process is in the hands of diplomats, so Michael stands guard in person, and reports anything he hears. It's Colin's job to rig his bugs - make them easy to use, and difficult to detect. The night Michael flies out they spend five hours going over how each one works and the detection range on the radios. At the end of the impromptu class, Michael lands a heavy hand on Colin's shoulder. "You're something else, Wells," he says with a smile. "See you flip side."

Colin makes friends with the two guys in Research; the three of them get tag-teamed for most surveillance ops. Colin's always had a knack for gadgetry and he hand-works upgrades to the teams' comms. He sends the specs to Malcolm for a once-over because there isn't anyone else he trusts to judge his work. When he gets an email back - an email! Not a postcard! - the next day, the prints are covered in notes, and it feels like a stamp of approval; Malcolm never engages with things that don't interest him. Three days later he gets a box full of spares and wire cutters. _Thought these might be of use. We're much more progressive in the City._

Colin burns that particular note. It wouldn't do for the locals to take a gander.

 

 

 _20th April 1998_

 _Colin,_

 _Thought you might want to look at these plans; Section D will be rolling out the new trackers next week, and as you were heavily involved in the project, I asked Harry if I could share the final prints. Had some trouble getting the circuitry to work on a closed loop, but took a look at your earlier notes and realised the trouble. It’s good work. You should be pleased with the end result; it’s mostly your effort._

 _Everyone here is fine, and Zoe asks after you every few days. Mother is much better now that the weather is warming a little, though she still has some trouble when it rains. I am looking for somewhere else to live._

 _I've added another bug to my collection. Copper-plated, the size of a knuckle. Not sure how it works yet but will let you know._

 _Trouble out back, as always, and strong winds from the north east. Waiting for some bulbs to flower, but not holding my breath._

 _Not long now. Packing your Hitchhiker’s as requested, and more tea. Bring the kettle when you come back._

 _Malcolm_

 

 

from:             c.wells@thameshouse.gov.uk  
sent:              22nd April 1998 10.15 GMT  
to:                  m.wynnjones@thameshouse.gov.uk

 _Thanks for book. Found a tenner in the back - bonus!_

 _Look forward to seeing your new toy. Glad your mother is better._

 _p.s. tell Zoe I said hi._

 

 

from:             m.wynnjones@thameshouse.gov.uk  
sent:              23rd April 1998 14.52 GMT  
to:                  c.wells@thameshouse.gov.uk  
attachment:          specs.doc

 _Glad to help. Sending specs for internal surveillance map. Please check at earliest convenience._

 

 

from:             c.wells@thameshouse.gov.uk  
sent:              23rd April 1998 15.48 GMT  
to:                  m.wynnjones@thameshouse.gov.uk

 _You have got to be kidding me. These are a bloody mess!_

 

 

from:             m.wynnjones@thameshouse.gov.uk  
sent:              23rd April 1998 15.51 GMT  
to:                  c.wells@thameshouse.gov.uk

 _Please refrain from shooting the messenger._

 _Home Office insists on re-eval of whole floor. Doesn't want a repeat of the Clinton mess._

 

 

from:             c.wells@thameshouse.gov.uk  
sent:              23rd April 1998 15.55 GMT  
to:                  m.wynnjones@thameshouse.gov.uk

 _Okay, that was three bugs in a hotel suite. Nothing to do with grid security!_

 _Also: still not my fault._

 

 

from:             c.wells@thameshouse.gov.uk  
sent:              23rd April 1998 15.58 GMT  
to:                  m.wynnjones@thameshouse.gov.uk

 _Not that it was your fault either, mate. I'll take a look._

 

 

By early May, they have built something of a rhythm. Michael is back from the Middle East, and on the weight of his and Penny’s say-so, Colin gets an invite to one office briefing a week. He goes over any paperwork Malcolm sends his way, decides to start defragging some of the older hard drives, and The Count sets him to work on backing up the teams' case files to a secure server. It's boring work for the most part, but he gets some unexpected help from Malcolm in long hand - sometimes he pops a comment off in an email, and gets three pages of written A4 in return a day later. It's not the traditional protocol, but it works for them.

Others in Section D have taken to slipping in the occasional missive, too. Zoe sends a recipe for Shepherd's Pie after Colin lets slip to Malcolm that hers was the best he'd ever tasted; also included in that package is a bag of Werther's Originals. "Your people do know it's the same country, yeah" Penny asks upon their discovery. "We get the same crap up here as what you do down south, but mite cheaper I 'spect." Tom sends a handful of newspaper clippings. At first Colin's at a loss, then he realises they're all about Armageddon which is due out in the summer. Colin had mentioned the film in passing at the top of the year, but he hadn't known Tom had paid him any attention. If makes him a little homesick. He pins all the clippings to his board with Malcolm's cards, and Zoe's recipe, and spends a whole afternoon being distracted by the shape of the vowels in Zoe's handwriting.

Harry sends him the final ruling on the Clinton case. _Off the hook. See you at the end of the month -- H. Pearce_. Colin reads the report a couple of times before taking it to the shredder. Usual scapegoat rubbish - inconclusive evidence, indications of blanket negligence, better job next time, tally ho. Colin knows he and Malcolm weren't to blame; he doesn't need a report to tell him one way or the other.

That afternoon he tells The Count about the update to his status, then goes out for a drink with Michael, Penny, and the teams. He wonders what his sabbatical was supposed to achieve, then forgoes the thought for another lager. Two weeks later they're back at the same bar, and Michael is leading a toast. Colin spares a moment to think he might miss these people quite a bit, but then he thinks about the things he emptied from his desk earlier that day - the kettle, the teabags, the cards - and feels a profound sense of relief over finally being released to go home.

 

 

from:             c.wells@thameshouse.gov.uk  
sent:              22nd May 1998 17.39 GMT  
to:                  m.wynnjones@thameshouse.gov.uk

 _Back on Monday. See you then._

 

 

Malcolm comes to his apartment on Sunday afternoon. He's pushing an envelope through the letterbox when Colin opens the door, and for a moment they stand there, equally gormless, Malcolm on the top step, and Colin just inside the hall.

"Hello."

"Colin. I was just—"

"Skulking on the doorstep?"

Malcolm frowns irritably. "Leaving a note."

Colin smiles. "Want to come in? I'm watching Red Dwarf. Series 2."

Malcolm shuffles. "Mother is waiting for me. She doesn't like to be left alone."

"I can make tea?" Colin's beginning to feel stupid, stuck in his own doorway. He didn't think it would be awkward; what could they possibly feel awkward over? Finally, Malcolm gives a half-shrug.

"All right. Can't hurt. Just one cup, mind, and—"

"—no sugar," Colin laughs. "Yeah, I remember." He closes the door gently behind Malcolm, tugging the envelope from the letterbox and taking it with him to the kitchen. "I'll be through in a minute. Rewind the tape to the start, would you?"

Whilst Malcolm faffs with the VHS, Colin sets the kettle to boil, and opens the letter Malcolm had tried not-so-surreptitiously to land on his doormat. It's just one sheet of notepaper, lined in blue, and marked with Malcolm’s sloping, elegant hand. _Welcome home. See you tomorrow. Don't forget to bring the floor specs. -- Malcolm_

Colin is still grinning when the kettle whistles.

 

 

> Cards from you arrived  
> In English, with many commas.  
>  **—Wendy Cope, Postcards**

 

 

 **end.**

**Author's Note:**

> Dear ihavecake,
> 
> This was initially a completely different story, mostly because I misread Colin as Connie, which would have been an issue. I learned to read somewhere between getting the prompt and sitting down to write it! Phew.
> 
> I am not even close to being Queen of the Laughs - I am not even a peasant in her court. My vague attempts at humour dissolved into banter about PG Tips and that general catch-all known as ‘tech specs’. Oops.
> 
> Regardless, I do hope there is something here to suit your taste, even if this is possibly the most boring story in the fandom. (I know. I have read most of them.) Gadget-loving goldfish this is not, but maybe we can squeeze it in under Give Your Geek a Hug.
> 
> Merry Christmas!


End file.
